


The Loquacious Mr. Liebgott

by LT_Aldo_Raine



Category: Band of Brothers
Genre: 1950s, 1950s Manhattan, Alternate Universe, Comedy, Drunken Shenanigans, Drunkenness, Joe is kinda a mess okay, M/M, New York, Public indecency, Stand Up, The Marvelous Mrs. Maisel AU that nobody asked for, public exposure, the Gaslight
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-16
Updated: 2020-05-16
Packaged: 2021-03-03 03:28:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,464
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24218134
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LT_Aldo_Raine/pseuds/LT_Aldo_Raine
Summary: “What’s going on?” The man on the stage—was he wearingpajamasbeneath his trench coat, David frowned—jutted an angry finger at the house. “I’ll fucking tell you what’s going on! Mywifeis schtupping the rabbi’s son!”OR: The Marvelous Mrs. Maisel AU that no one asked for.
Relationships: Joseph Liebgott/David Kenyon Webster
Comments: 4
Kudos: 37
Collections: Heavy Artillery Rolling Remix 2020





	The Loquacious Mr. Liebgott

**Author's Note:**

> Let's get this remix rollin'!

Normally, David would have never been caught dead in the Gaslight, least he contract tetanus or ‘mysteriously’ lose his wallet. The former Greenwich Village speakeasy wasn’t even remotely the kind of joint David fancied frequenting. None of the furniture matched, most of it having lived two or three previous lives before finding its way into this unforgiving purgatory of a cellar, and the majority of the paint-chipped tables and distressed chairs wobbled precariously courtesy of one or two stubby legs. The lone bathroom toilet had no seat and the door didn’t lock, to say nothing of the vulgar and unimaginative graffiti that littered the door and walls. Amid the stale air of cigarette smoke was the faint but constant odor of piss, and the bar only served Ballantine, the bitter taste of which David had never bother to acquire a taste for. Not to mention that the floor was positively _filthy._

But—David loved his little sister, so there he was.

Annie had been gushing about the band—some gaggle of Brooklynites or Harlem vagabonds, David hadn’t been listening, honestly—for months, and though the jazzy trio had been surprisingly not awful—the recent Harvard graduate wouldn’t go so far as to call them _good,_ but they had been mildly decent—, David was under no illusions that the band had been worth a trip to that particular dive bar.

Nothing short of the second coming of Christ warranted such an affair, frankly. 

But, again, there he was.

And he was, currently, suffering some particularly trite poetry when, quite abruptly, a drunken man tumbled down the entry steps and barreled into a table of short-hand girls, spilling their drinks and sending the pair into indignant shrieking. The guy didn’t even apologize, just powered forward until he swayed on his feet at the edge of the small stage where, to her credit, the performing poet refused to waver as she forged onward theatrically, lamenting the crimes of capitalism that conflicted with her bohemian lifestyle. She braved on, that is, until the drunkard hoisted himself onto the stage and snatched the microphone out of the mic stand and forced his body between the beatnik poet and the crowd.

“You know what fuckin’ sucks—"

Although there was a murmur of discontent rumbling through the crowd at the man’s interruption of the poetry performance—the barflies obviously respected the artist, if not the art—, there came a second, more accepting wave of murmurs, something akin to giddiness, at the man’s foul language. David, though he had no tolerance for public drunkenness, was grateful at least that he would no longer have to endure the bad poetry.

“It fuckin’ sucks,” the man continued, and as he swayed dubiously beneath the shoddy spotlight, David couldn’t help but notice that, despite the drunken sheen of sweat clinging to the man’s brow and the general disheveled state of his appearance, their newest, impromptu performer was actually quite handsome. He had a nice, full set of lips that were twisted wickedly over his teeth, which were barred with an almost animalistic intent, and his thick, dark hair fell in sweaty locks over his forehead in a manner that paradoxically made the man look both boyish and dangerous. “It’s just such a bitch when...”

He trailed off, seemingly lost in thought, and a voice rose from the audience. “Hey, buddy, what’re you doing?”

“Yeah!” another disembodied voice from the crowd shouted. “What’s goin’ on?”

“What’s going on?” The man on the stage—was he wearing _pajamas_ beneath his trench coat, David frowned—jutted an angry finger at the house. “I’ll fucking tell you what’s going on! My _wife_ is schtupping the rabbi’s son!”

The boozer gave a cynical laugh, and the bar congregation shared an unspoken moment of debate: would anyone stop this man, or would his psychotic breakdown be allowed to continue? Collectively, they seemed to agree. _Let’s hear more about this rabbi’s son…_

“That’s right—little fuckin’ Abraham _Cohen_. Can you fuckin’ believe it? How fuckin’ Jewish is that shit? Abraham. Cohen. The guy’s the pinnacle of Jewishness based on his goddamn name _alone_. And a rabbi’s son, to boot! Fuck, no wonder she wanted to fuck him. That’s like a one-way ticket to _Olam Ha-Ba—_ that’s what we Jews call it, _the world to come._ _”_

Bringing the Torah into it appeared to take out some of the wind from his sails. Literally, the guy slumped a bit on the stage, leaning heavily on the mic stand with his free hand, the other still clutching the microphone viciously. David watched, equally horrified and enraptured, as the drunken man swiped a pink tongue over his bottom lip, hooded gaze lost somewhere in the shadows of the bar. “Every young Jewish girl’s dream, right? The rabbi’s son. And apparently—” Here, his voice soared once again as he regained his footing, a lopsided grin sliding into place. “—it was so goddamn good the first time, she just had to fuck him again. And again. And _again_. Well, turns out, the rabbi’s son—motherfucking Abraham Cohen—gives it so good that my bitch of a wife has been fucking him for seven months. Ha!”

Somewhere in the darkened crowd of tables, a sharp wolf-whistle raised above the scatter of laughter.

“Goddamn,” the drunk man’s grin took a devilish turn. “—the kid gave it so good maybe _I_ should fuck him.” That got more than a few laughs, and David glanced over to see the color rising in Annie’s cheeks, though she, too, gave a soft giggle. Then, the lush added by way of afterthought, the spotlight haloing his dark hair, “Hell, maybe I like men, too. I don’t know...”

“He’s a lavender lad!” a French-accented voice shouted from somewhere to David’s left before yet another barfly suggested, with a raucous laugh, “Hey, pal, maybe that’s why your wife left ya!”

“Hey, ya know what, maybe you’re right.” Rather than growing incensed as David anticipated he would at the slur, the handsome carouser pulled a thoughtful face, as if he were genuinely considering the heckler’s marriage advice. “And the thing is, when I told my mother that my wife of six years was leaving me for Abraham Cohen, first, my mother asked what _I’d done_ to her, and _then_ , she—my _mother_ —told me to give my wife—no, sorry, my _ex_ -wife—her congratulations! Can you fuckin’ believe that? My mother passing along her compliments to my soon-to-be ex-wife on her recent elopement with the rabbi’s son! I’m being _divorced_ —I’m a goddamn _Jew_! We don’t do that shit like the rest of you WASP-y motherfuckers. I mean, we’re not as bad as the _Catholics_ , but still, we just _don’t_. And yet…”

The guy swayed a little and snickered, “Sorry, I think I’m a bit drunk. You guys don’t wanna hear about this shit.”

“Yeah, we do!”

David didn’t bother to source the shout. His gaze, like that of every other Gaslight patron, was glued to the man teetering on the stage. In spite of his good sense, David was captivated by the wily, amusing stranger. Maybe it was that pair of _fuck me_ lips, or the way he carried himself with such pride and confidence even as his life fell apart and he made a fool of himself. There was simply something enthralling about this stranger, a man whose eyebrows disappeared into his hairline as he drawled into the microphone, “Oh, you do? Well, in that case…”

No one had bothered to notice the pair of policemen that had entered the Gaslight.

“—let me tell you more about the fucker that stole my wife. We went to Hebrew school together, and not for nothing, ya know, I’ve seen the guy naked a time or two—locker rooms, ya know?—and I gotta say, little Abraham Cohen must really know how to use it—”

He made a vulgar motion with his hips, and the police officers stepped closer to the stage.

“—because _little Abraham,_ indeed.” To a chorus of laughter, with one swift motion, the drunkard unfastened his cotton pajama bottoms and took hold of himself. David felt his stomach tighten—with delight? with disbelief?—and face going white, glanced over at Annie. She, too, starred owlishly at the stage, a pink flush high on her cheeks, mouth split in silly amusement. Up on stage, the gorgeous carouser continued with a sly grin, “Now, I’m not one to brag, but ole little Abraham Cohen don’t got nothin’ on me.”

And he promptly whipped out his dick.

The following sequence of events happened quickly. In the space of time it took for the sloppy performer to undo his pants, the policemen had crossed the dirty floor of the bar to the stage, and as soon as the man had exposed himself, the officers had pounced. There was the tell-tale call of the police whistle, and as the cops wrestled the impromptu comedian back into his pants, into handcuffs, and off the stage, the Gaslight erupted with cheers and hollers, laughter and claps. For a brief moment, there was pandemonium in the cellar, and as the policemen dragged the man to the door, David couldn’t have been certain over the noisy din of the crowd, but it looked like the arrestee was now heckling the cops.

Someone in the shadows of the house floor shouted, “Aw, c’mon, fellas! We were just having a good time!” 

Across the dimly lit bar, David saw the man’s lips moving and unconsciously rose to his feet so as to gain a better view. Similarly, without thinking, the blue-eyed man reached for his coat in the same motion and promptly instructed his little sister to gather her things.

“What? We’re leaving? Oh, come on, Davey. The man’s been arrested. The trouble’s all over. Can’t we stay for just one more, please?” begged Annie, lips in a pout. But David had no intentions of lingering in that cesspool of an establishment for a second longer. Not when the only talent of the night was currently being shoved into the back of a police vehicle.

“Coat, Annie. Now.”

David’s body had slipped into a dazed state, his limbs moving through the motions while his mind was left reeling. Later, he would reflect that it had been a surreal, almost out of body experience. Outside on the street above, he hailed a cab and tucked Annie into the backseat, eyes following the NYPD patrol car as it turned the street corner three blocks away. He rattled off their parents’ address to the driver and dropped a kiss to Annie’s forehead, which had wrinkled slightly with confusion. “I’ll be home later.”

“You’re not coming? Davey, where are you going?”

“Love you, Annie,” David replied with the tone of finality often associated with older brothers, and he closed the door of the taxi and stepped back onto the curb, body already twisting to hail another.

At the police station—he’d gone to the wrong precinct first, but had eventually found his way—, David had to convince the police officers that _yes,_ the drunk guy from the Gaslight who’d whipped out his schlong for the crowd and Jesus and everybody to see, _was_ , in fact, the man that David wished to bail out. He paid the bond fee, signed a form, and loitered awkwardly as beat cops in uniform shuffled about the place. Some twenty minutes passed before the man, sans his trench coat, emerged sporting a guileful grin as he was escorted by a police officer at his elbow to collect his belongings.

“I’m telling you, Mikey,” the guy drawled as he pulled on his coat. “You should consider my offer. The cells would be perfect for cock fighting. You just let me know.” David would have been appalled by the suggestion if the mischievous glint in the man’s eyes didn’t betray the teasing nature of his proposition. The jailbird waggled his wallet in the face of the officer behind the desk. “I had two joints in here. They still better be there, alright?”

Finally, the man turned to face David. His brow furrowed. “You’re not Chuck.”

David’s lips twitched, fighting amusement. “No.”

“I thought Chuck bailed me out.”

“No, I did.”

His trench coat haphazardly draped over his shoulders, the guy nodded slowly. “Uh huh. Well, thanks.” Then, he twisted on his heel unceremoniously and strode purposefully toward the exit. Despite feeling somewhat snubbed, David hurried to follow him, calling after the stranger, “Can I offer you some advice?”

When the man paused to throw a curious glance over his shoulder, David took that as his cue to suggest: “Don’t fuck that rabbi’s son.”

The man’s eyes widened. “Fuck, I really said that.”

A smug smile settled on David’s face. “You really said that.”

“Well—” The attractive sort-of comedian began carefully. And although David knew that the other man was appraising him, the stranger’s dark gaze dripping over every inch of the Harvard man’s figure, for once David found the attention delightful. He allowed himself to relish in the weight of the calculating gaze. Apparently, the man was satisfied by what he saw because he eventually nodded to himself, then shrugged. “Guess I’ll just have to find somebody else to fuck.”

“Keep talking like that, they’ll lock you back up.”

Producing a Pall Mall cigarette from somewhere inside his coat, the guy popped the fag between his lips, asked David for a lite, and after David obliged, took a long and lingering drag. As the smoke curled past the seam of his lips and up around the tips of his ears, the man jerked his chin by way of greeting. “I’m Joe. Joe Liebgott.”

“David.” Then, he added, “Webster.”

The guy—Joe—hummed low in his throat, lips still wrapped firmly around the cigarette, savoring it as if it were his last. “I reckon I’m gonna have to find a way to pay you back for the bail money, Web.”

It was David’s turn to give his own sinful grin, the one that showed his dimples, the one that had been known to make folks of both sexes weak in the knees for the chance to put his pretty mouth to use. “I’m sure you’ll think of something.” 

Later, Joe would pay David back in spades. He would pay him in haircuts and insults, in Dick Tracy comics and half-assed dinners of matzo ball soup, in love bites and sloppy but exquisite hand jobs, and later still when Joe decided to really do this comedy thing, he would pay David back in fancy hotel suites and five course meals and private jets to Vegas and Chicago and Miami—and David would let him. 

Perhaps, in the end, his trip to the Gaslight had been worth it after all.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [no matter how near you'll be (the sad affair remix)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24331852) by [Muccamukk](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Muccamukk/pseuds/Muccamukk)




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